


play with fire

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [30]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Deepthroating, M/M, Marking, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-08-11 09:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20151067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Sans takes his time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Edge is waiting at the bench with a travel mug of coffee. It’s one of the most welcoming sights Sans has ever seen, like a fresh bottle of ketchup on the counter at Grillby’s or a fond lecture about socks. Edge doesn’t smile, exactly, but his expression gets subtly warmer when Sans sits down beside him.

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the date. It could be hideously awkward. But they just look at each other for a second, both of them knowing things have changed and the weirdness is hanging above their heads like an incontinent seagull, and Edge’s mouth gives a rueful twitch as if at a shared joke. Relieved, Sans grins back.

It’s just Edge, all honor and gentleness and dry sense of humor. Neither of them know what the hell they’re doing, so Edge won’t be upset if he does it wrong.

“How is it you always end up waiting for me even if I take the early bus?” Sans asks.

“There was no time for a break yesterday, so I asked for a longer one today. I needed to search the bench for bugs.” Edge holds out the coffee. “Here. You look cold.”

Sans takes it before Edge can change his mind. There’s a bitter chill to the air. He thinks there’s a chill, anyway, but it could because his soul is acting up. He scootches closer to Edge for good measure. Edge is as good as a space heater. “Thanks. Did you check the tree?”

“In passing, although I stopped short of climbing it.” After a moment of consideration, Edge lays his arm across the back of the bench. It’s not the classic ‘yawn and stretch’ maneuver, but it’ll do. “I’m hardly in the right clothes for it. It seemed undignified. Also, I’m not sure he’s willing to put in that much work.”

Sans inches over the remaining space between them. He doesn’t plaster himself against Edge’s side, and Edge doesn’t put an arm around him. But the potential that they could and that, in fact, they could touch each other in a lot of other interesting ways is heavy and sweet in the air.

“I dunno if he thinks of being a voyeur as work so much as a vocation. Maybe a calling.” Sans drinks the coffee, very aware of Edge’s rapt attention. The coffee is sweet and searingly hot. Sans makes a point of letting his appreciation show on his face. “This is good.”

“I put in enough sugar you could stand a spoon up in it.” Edge studies Sans. “How are you feeling? My brother mentioned you seemed out of sorts yesterday.”

Red’s a fucking snitch, apparently. It doesn’t help that Sans _was_ out of sorts yesterday morning, every nerve strung slightly too tight. It’s a new and annoying symptom. Insomnia and anxiety, sure, he had that before, but not this thing where he wanted to twitch every time someone sat too close to him on the bus. He still feels a little off, but it’s nowhere near as bad as before Red fucked him through the mattress.

(Which raises the uncomfortable question of whether it’s his soul at all. He’s seen Red in the days leading up to an ugly LV flareup, when Red looks strained and tense but not yet to the point of snapping, when violence or rough sex is the only thing that seems to help. Sans is trying not to think about that comparison too hard.)

(He’ll ask Red later whether he should cancel the trip on account of possibly being about to flip his shit. He thinks he’d be feeling worse today if it was a LV flareup, not better, but he doesn’t want to unspool on a group of preteens, only one of whom has murdered someone. But until it’s time for that awkward conversation, he’s going to savor his blissful denial.)

“Just kinda tired,” Sans says. “No big deal.”

Edge considers him for another moment before apparently finding that an acceptable answer. “How’s your soul?”

Sans freezes for a fraction of a second, thinking of the wet spot on Red’s mattress and the sharp spasm of pleasure that went through him when he gave his soul a quick and fleeting lick. Then he pushes the memory away. Absolutely nothing to see here, no dirty thoughts whatsoever. “Still ticking. Not as bad as it was before you started healing me.”

“I should hope so,” Edge says, looking slightly offended, like Sans was casting aspersions on his skills. 

Before Sans can try to smooth his ruffled feathers, Edge puts his other hand on top of Sans’s where they’re cradling the mug. He doesn’t have his gloves on, and his bare bones are warm. Part of Sans finds the sudden pitter-patter of his soul hilarious. Edge just touched his hand, for fuck’s sake.

“You’re cold,” Edge notes, frowning. “If we’re already rescheduling the soul healing for the trip, we could deal with it tonight.”

“Tomorrow night.” Sans needs another day to forget the way touching his soul felt so maybe he won’t be broadcasting lust loud and clear the second Edge lays hands on him. When Edge’s frown deepens, Sans gives his most disarming grin. “Look, it’s just one more day. I’ll swing by your place and get a little more sexual healing from Red.”

It’s probably not fair to try to distract Edge with the mental image of him and Red in bed together, but it works, at least for a few seconds. The half-lidded, thoughtful look Edge gives him chases the chill right out of Sans’s bones, leaving him warmer than the coffee, like if he exhales it’ll steam in the autumn air.

“Speaking of my brother, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about those rules we discussed in the beginning,” Edge says. 

And just that fast, the warmth is gone. Edge doesn’t look pissed, but Sans has the automatic, guilty urge to sit up straighter. Maybe Red mentioned that they’d talked about soul stuff, or that Sans had grabbed his hips hard enough to have possibly left marks, or that Sans licked his bruises, or that whole thing where Red offered to let him sit in on their kinky bullshit, or-- well, there’s no end of ways Sans could’ve fucked up.

Uncertainly, Sans says, “Uh, yeah?”

“All right, that clearly sounded more ominous than I meant it to,” Edge sighs. Unfortunately, he takes his hand off Sans’s. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just wanted to talk about them, considering how things have changed.”

“Still ominous, buddy,” Sans says.

“I’m afraid that’s just my face,” Edge says.

“It’s a nice face, though,” Sans says.

Said face goes through a couple of expressions in a span of seconds, ranging from surprised to skeptical, finally settling on fond. Edge says, “We really should move that healing up. Your vision is failing you.”

Sans considers the risks versus the reward of putting that soft, flustered look in Edge’s eyes. Then he reaches tentatively for Edge’s face, giving him plenty of time to flinch or pull away; Edge just studies him, puzzled but not wary, as Sans rests his hand on Edge’s cheek. Sans skims his thumb over a cheekbone that could cut glass, his fingers resting on the sharp curve of Edge’s jaw.

“Hmm,” Sans says. “Nope. Still feels like a nice face. Also, this is a good way to put somebody’s eye out.”

“That would rather ruin the moment, yes.” Edge leans very subtly into Sans’s touch. He doesn’t rub against Sans like an affectionate cat; that must be a Red thing, or maybe Edge is saving that for when they’re a little further along so he doesn’t spook Sans. But Edge’s eyes are very warm, another almost-smile on his mouth, and that’s as good as being nuzzled. “Another experiment?”

Sans only wanted an excuse to touch him.

Reluctantly, Sans takes his hand back. His fingers feel tingly and charged, like he’s going to get a static shock the next time he touches metal. “Yep, just checking whether I can touch your face like a weirdo.”

“You can touch me however you like,” Edge says.

The promise in those words runs like a shiver down Sans’s spine. He swallows. “Heh. Okay.”

Sans pokes Edge in the center of his forehead. The bemused look on Edge’s face is hilarious, particularly when Sans uses his fingertip to draw a smiley face. When Sans sits back to admire his invisible artwork, Edge says, “That’s not quite what I was expecting, but thank you.”

“Well, what else did you mean, edgelord?” Sans asks. He may not be able to manage innocence, but he’s real good at being oblivious even when he’s not trying.

Amused, Edge says, “I don’t want to stifle your creativity.”

“Ohhhh,” Sans says, as if struck by sudden enlightenment. “You meant I could touch your dick.”

He’s been playing mind games with himself for so long, denying what was going on and then hiding what he knew from Edge, that just saying it feels like taking his first deep breath of air after the feeding tube came out, painful but sweet relief. The corners of Edge’s mouth twitch. It’s a very small reaction, but it’s there. Edge says, “You figured it out. Congratulations. I’ve been so subtle.”

Sans grins. “Cut me some slack, it only took me nine months and a couple near death experiences. Anyway, you were talking about rules.”

“I was,” Edge says. “My brother asked to revise them, and I agreed. What he chooses to do in bed with you is his call, and he’s your lover as much as mine. I trust you.”

The words are right on Sans’s tongue to say that Red isn’t his anything, thanks. There’s a difference between thinking of Red as _a_ lover and _his_ lover. It’s not his collar around Red’s throat. But even he’s not enough of a liar to say them. Whatever the hell he and Red are, they’re something.

All of the rules involved ways Sans could inadvertently damage or even kill Red if he was careless. After Sans bounced Red off a wall and dinged his HP, he can’t blame Edge for being wary. It’s no small thing for Edge to offer him that kind of trust now, even if Red’s willing to.

“Thanks,” Sans says, meeting Edge’s eyes.

One corner of Edge’s mouth curves upwards in acknowledgement. Edge says, “You can mark him, if you’d like. You can touch his soul.”

Eye contact was a mistake. Sans decides to appreciate the trunk of the nearby tree instead. It sure is… treelike. “I don’t really know if that’s on the table.”

“I imagine that’s a conversation you’d have to have with him.” Edge sounds faintly amused. It occurs to Sans to wonder why Red decided to go to Edge to change the rules. Seems like a lot of trouble to go through because he wants Sans to mark him up.

(The thought of leaving behind a mark Edge can see when Red strips naked in front of him scalds through Sans like a lightning strike. His grip tightens on the coffee mug.)

“I still ask that you speak with me if you want to hurt him.” Edge’s voice breaks into Sans’s moment of being completely appalled with himself. When Sans opens his mouth to repeat that he’s not into that kind of thing, Edge holds up a hand. “I’m saying it for my own peace of mind, not because I think you want to. You’ve made yourself clear.”

“Okay,” Sans says, trying not to remember exploring Red’s bruises with his fingers and then his tongue. How warm they felt under his touch, how relaxed and easy Red had been on his lap after Edge was done with him. It’s harder to forget than it should be. “Makes sense. You’re a thorough kind of guy.”

“I try,” Edge agrees. 

There’s nothing suggestive in the way he says it; it’s not like Sans is talking to Red here, who layers innuendo in the mildest comments and follows it up with a brow waggle in case he was being too subtle. But Sans thinks a couple filthy thoughts about what Edge being thorough could mean, and he takes a sudden, too deep chug of coffee in a desperate attempt to hide his expression. 

Fuck, Sans is all over the place, like the mere possibility that the two of them could bone gave his libido a green light to fling any pornographic mental images he was repressing for nine months at him all at once.

Maybe that consternation shows on his face, because Edge says gently, “I apologize. I didn’t intend to make you nervous. As I said, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Heh,” Sans says. “That’s not exactly it.”

“Then what?”

Of course Edge would ask a follow-up question. Sans grins crookedly. “Sex helps with my soul bullshit, and my soul is acting up, so, uh. Y’know how when you’re starving, all you can think about is food?”

“Ah,” Edge says, apparently catching his drift. There’s a long few moments of loaded silence so dense that it seems to have a physical weight to it. He shifts, his knee pressing against Sans’s. His voice is tentative and a little rough. “Dare I ask what you were thinking of?”

“I dunno, edgelord,” Sans says, his tone casual as his soul beats giddily in his chest. “Dare you?”

Edge exhales, the sound almost a laugh. He’s so close. It would be so easy for Sans to touch him. “I might. Not now, I’m afraid.”

For all that it’s really a stupid idea to discuss sexual fantasies in the middle of a public park on Edge’s lunch break, particularly when Red may or may not be eavesdropping, Sans feels a definite twinge of disappointment. He shrugs it off with an easy grin. “Gotta get back to work?”

“Soon. There are no end of tedious details to iron out before Frisk’s trip,” Edge says. “I hear you’re going.”

“You hear right. Papyrus roped me into it.”

“He missed his calling as a diplomat.” Edge is quiet for another moment. When he speaks, it’s with painstaking care. “Will you stay in our room, then? We’re getting two beds for appearance’s sake as it is, and it seems a waste for you to get one of your own. I give you my word, nothing untoward will happen.”

Sans snorts. “Red’s coming. Pretty sure untoward is on the menu.”

“Not with children down the hall, it’s not,” Edge says, in a tone that says he’s already told Red something along those lines.

Sans hums and drains the rest of his coffee. It’s not alcoholic, but the warmth of it spreading through him gives him enough borrowed courage to say, still so goddamn casual, just look at how cool and collected he is, “Yeah, I’ll crash with you guys. And maybe things could get a _little_ untoward.”

A pause. Edge says, “Oh?”

“G-rated levels of untoward,” Sans says. “Hot handholding action. Maybe a little snuggling. Maybe...”

_Maybe I could kiss you._

His mouth won’t form the words, like it’s the most illicit suggestion in the world. He thinks he’s blushing.

“Whatever you’d like,” Edge says. Still so goddamn patient with him. He sighs. “Unfortunately, I need to get back to work.”

“Yep. You got a kid to keep safe.” Sans grins up at him. “Meanwhile, I’ll hang out with Red doing nothing at all. Screwing around, you could say.”

“A thought that will occupy me the rest of the afternoon,” Edge says dryly.

Sans winks. “I know.”

He’s playing with fire and he knows it. There's an amused glint in Edge’s eyes. He takes his arm off the back of the bench where it was almost around Sans and offers his hand. Kind of a mixed message, considering that Edge said he needed to leave, but hey, Sans is happy to hold his hand for a minute.

But when Sans reaches for Edge, meaning to twine their fingers together, Edge apparently has a different plan. Like he thinks he’s a gentleman in some fancy old school romance, he takes Sans by the fingertips and, giving Sans plenty of time to pump the brakes, bends to touch his mouth to the back of Sans’s hand. His eyes burn hot, and so does Sans.

It should be ridiculous. Who the fuck does Edge think he’s dealing with here? Sans keeps a fucking whoopee cushion up his sleeve. He isn’t made for this kind of thing. But Edge kissed him, even if it’s a supposedly safe and non-erogenous zone, and there’s nothing ridiculous about it.

(Well, okay, it’s a little ridiculous, but any romantic bullshit involving Sans was always doomed to be that way.)

“Wow,” Sans says, trying and failing not to sound rattled. “Okay, I know Red didn’t teach you that.”

He can feel Edge’s mouth curve against his fingers. Edge lets him go and asks, “Too much?”

Sans laughs, reclaiming his hand and wrapping it tight around the mug. He still feels the place where Edge’s mouth touched him, burning like an ember. “Uh, no. Figured you’d give me something to think about?”

“It seems only fair,” Edge says.

“Welp, mission accomplished,” Sans says. “You better head back to work. I gotta get to a fainting couch and loosen my corset.”

“I’m sure my brother will be happy to help.” Edge gives Sans a last, lingering glance and then stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to take it easy until then.”

“I always take it easy.” Sans only recognizes how suggestive that sounds when Edge crooks an amused brow. Before Edge turns away, Sans says, “Hey, Edge?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe PG-rated.”

Edge smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Sans wondering if his new LV is acting up, brief discussion of Red's eavesdropping habit, but this is otherwise fluffy as hell.
> 
> Edited 8/22/19 to remove a joke that could be read as at the expense of visually-impaired people, not inaccurate movie tropes about visually-impaired people. Nobody remarked on it, but on further consideration I feel bad about it and would like to remove it and apologize. Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

It’s late afternoon when Sans lets himself into Red and Edge’s place. As expected, Red is on the couch, although Sans is a little caught off guard by the two cats curled up in a tangle of limbs beside him and the book in his hand. It paints a surprisingly cozy picture.

Before Sans gets a good look at the title, the book’s gone, shoved quickly back in Red's inventory. The stray startles, lifting her head from Doomfanger’s belly to give Red the stinkeye. Red scratches the top of her head, and she blinks slowly at him once before deigning to snuggle back into Doomfanger and doze off.

“Funny, that almost looked like you were hiding something,” Sans says.

Red shrugs. “You’re the expert.”

“And you need remedial lessons," Sans says. “You weren’t fast enough. I’m pretty sure I saw heaving bosoms.”

“Hey, I’m a big fan of heaving bosoms,” Red says.

“Apparently,” Sans says. “Also naughty Scotsman. The more important question is since when do you have shame?”

Red rolls his eyes. “Look, sometimes a guy just wants to critique shitty sex scenes in peace, all right? Some of these dudes can’t find the clit with GPS and a flashlight. It’s embarrassing.”

“Critique,” Sans echoes. “Lemme guess. You write notes in the margins?”

With a grin, Red says, “Then I leave ‘em on park benches and coffee shops. It’s a public service.”

“Sure,” Sans says. “It’s not like you actually enjoy it.”

“‘Course not,” Red scoffs. “That’s stupid. It’s just a dumb hobby I picked up back home.”

Sans looks at him. Red, who snarls at Edge for touching him too gently unless Edge beats him first, who is just as starved for affection as his brother and who demands that Sans stay for cuddling, who’s unapologetic about everything from murder to incest to kink, is trying to hide that he reads romance novels on the sly.

Yeah. It’s not like Red learned shame. He already had it in spades.

Sans turns his back on Red and locks the door. It gives him a second to get his expression fully under control. Red won’t deal well with what he’d think was pity. As he sheds his jacket, Sans says casually, “So how naughty _is_ the Scotsman? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Heh. The writer seems to think eating pussy makes him the kinkiest fucker in Europe.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Not even a little ass-fucking.”

Sans tsks. “Scotsmen these days.”

“He’s even more vanilla than you were. Emphasis on were.” The words come from much closer to Sans than he was expecting, and he instinctively tenses. Familiar hands come to rest on his hips as Red presses up against his back, nuzzling his shoulder. Red’s breath is warm against his spine. “What, Sansy, you’re not gonna protest too much? No defensive bullshit about how you’re not a kinky bastard like me?”

Yep, Sans clearly didn’t turn around fast enough to keep Red from seeing his expression. There’s an edge in Red’s voice. He’s not outright pissed; history says Sans would be getting shoved against a wall if Red was actually angry. That doesn’t mean Red isn’t going to be prickly about it. Emphasis on the prick.

“I’m not a kinky bastard like you,” Sans says dutifully. “Was that defensive enough? How about the bullshit quotient? I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Red snorts. “You’re in a mood.”

“Oh, _I’m_ in a mood. That’s hilarious.” Sans turns around to grin at him. “Since we’re talking moods, are you in the mood to bone?”

That gets him a grin in return, sharp as a knife. Red says, “Yeah. Whose turn is it again?”

“That’s not gonna work twice.”

Red’s half-lidded look says he’s remembering every detail of the last time they fucked: Sans desperate on his knees, doing everything Red asked him to and telling himself he was the one in control, his soul as soaked and throbbing as his cunt. Sans feels a hard tug of something like longing and something like shame. Then Red shrugs and the spectre of yesterday is gone. “Hey, I like it when you’re on top. You got a mean streak. Especially when you think you’ve got something to prove.”

Since Red apparently plans to stand there like an obstructive asshole, Sans walks around him and starts for the bedroom. Over his shoulder, he says, “I like my sex without the complimentary session of head-shrinking, thanks.” 

“How about other kinds of head?” Red asks. Sans knew he would, just like he knew Red would follow a step or two behind him.

“Well, that suits me just fine,” Sans says.

Once they’re in the bedroom, the door closed behind them to prevent the cats from seeing anything that would scar them for life, Sans grabs Red by the shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. He feels Red grin against his mouth. When Sans lets him go, Red drawls, “Oh sweetcheeks, you know I love it when you take charge like that.”

It’s partly mockery, because Red is an asshole, but there’s a spark of interest in his eyes. Sans gives him a condescending pat on the chest. “Neat. Take your clothes off.”

“I’m the best influence,” Red says.

“You’re really not.”

“Beg to differ.” Red strips efficiently and stands there with his hands at his sides like he did a magic trick: _tada_. He’s easy in his bare bones in a way that’s unfairly attractive even as he waggles his brows with maximum cheese. “In fact, I can beg all you want.”

Sans tries and fails to ignore the way his soul lurches in his chest in sheer hungry reaction. Red’s grin gets sharper as he sees it. Asshole.

“Knock yourself out,” Sans says. “It won’t get you anywhere, but everybody needs a hobby.”

Delighted, Red laughs. “Look at you, getting all bossy. All right, then. Tell me what to do.”

When they started the whole taking turns bullshit, Sans thought who was in control of each round of fuckery was supposed to be pretty clear cut. Red has a way of muddying the waters, topping from the bottom and bottoming from the top until it’s hard to keep any clear distinction. 

It’s frustrating. It’s intoxicating. The stakes of this game they're playing together aren’t particularly high, but Sans doesn’t intend to lose.

Sans says, “Lucky for you, all you gotta do is lay down and take it.”

“I’m into it.” Red stretches out on the mattress, taking up an impressive amount of room for someone his height. There’s no wince when his shoulders hit the bed, so apparently his bruises aren’t bothering him. “Hey, didja talk to the boss about those rules yet?”

Despite himself, Sans glances at the battered soul barely visible behind Red’s ribs. He thinks of its fragile light in Red’s hands, the sounds Red made when he touched himself. He thinks of the latex gloves that he bought from a drugstore on his way to the bus stop, crammed into his inventory like a dirty secret.

When he meets Red’s eyes again, Red is smirking. He clearly already knows the answer and probably eavesdropped on that conversation for good measure, but Sans still tells him, “Sure did.”

“Nice.” Red touches his ribs over his soul, running his fingers down them and then flirting with reaching up inside his ribcage. A few months ago, that gesture wouldn’t strike Sans as so fucking filthy, but now it hits him like a suckerpunch. Red watches his face, looking deeply pleased with himself. “You got anything you wanna ask me about?”

Ha. No end of things. Sans averts his eyes for a second, wondering how the hell he’s the one on the back foot when Red’s laying here naked. “Not today.”

Is that a flicker of disappointment on Red’s face? It’s gone too fast for Sans to be sure. Red shrugs. “It’s your call, babe. We don’t have to do anything you don’t--”

“I have gloves,” Sans says. “In my inventory. For the record.”

Red gives him a slow, feral grin. “Yeah?”

“Yep,” Sans says.

“Those for you or me?”

“I mean, there’s a hundred gloves in a box,” Sans says. “It could be for you, me and forty-eight of our closest friends.”

“Or we could just do it fifty times,” Red says.

“Yeah, or that.” More likely that, to be honest. Sans doesn’t much see the appeal in outside players these days. Other than Edge, anyway. “Not now, though.”

“Scared you’ll get all hot and bothered when you bring your soul out for the boss?” Red asks. Then he examines Sans’s expression and laughs. “Whoops. Too late, huh?”

“Yeah, because some asshole told me to lick my soul,” Sans says.

“Hey, you’re the one who decided to listen to me,” Red says.

“Admittedly, I should know better by now.”

Studying him through deceptively sleepy eyes, Red asks, “Didja like it?”

Instead of answering, Sans straddles Red’s hips on the mattress. Even through his shorts, he can feel the heat of Red’s unformed magic when he grinds down. Red’s head falls back as he arches, and the black leather of the collar is stark against his throat. Sans bends down and licks his spine, tasting Red and leather and Edge’s intent in a dizzying cocktail.

“You talk too much,” Sans says against Red’s throat.

“Then shut me up.”

Not likely, but Sans enjoys a challenge on occasion. He presses a kiss to the collar, feeling that echo of Edge, and slides down Red’s body. When he drags his tongue over the scar that doesn’t bisect Red’s sternum, Red groans and grips the back of Sans’s neck to encourage more of the same. 

Grabbing Red by the wrist and pinning him to the bed is instinctive and bad for his health, but even as Sans realizes that was probably a stupid move, Red laughs and doesn’t resist. Sans exhales shakily, feeling more wrecked than Red sounds, and continues with what he was doing. He thoroughly traces the line of the scar with his tongue, listening as Red's breathing picks up. Then he moves lower, kissing Red's spine, tasting each vertebra until he finally reaches his destination.

The bone of Red's pelvis is already flushed a little pink, darkest at the pubic symphysis. There's shapeless, loose magic gathered in the cradle of Red's hips. Sans settles in between Red's legs. He means to stay a while.

"You got any requests?" Red asks, craning his neck to watch Sans with a smirk, for all that he's the one on his back with his wrist held down.

Sans licks the rim of Red's ischium to feel him jerk. He grins back. "Nope. Dealer's choice."

Immediately, there's a flare of magic. Sans pulls back just in time to keep from possibly losing an eye to Red's dick. He gives Red a flat look, and Red grins back, all innocence. "What, you don't wanna give me a socketjob?"

Sans hates that he actually has to ask, "Is that a thing?" The question would keep him up at night if he didn't, trying to figure out the logistics of how Red got the jizz out of his skull afterwards.

Red's grin gets wider. "Oh, sweet, innocent Sansy. The things you don't know."

"That's a no," Sans says.

It's definitely a no; Red looks a little too delighted by Sans falling for it for it to be legit. Red says, "You can always ask the boss. Just be sure to do it when I'm around so I can help explain."

"So you can watch Edge have an aneurysm," Sans supplies. "Got it."

"What can I say, babe?" Red asks. "I told you before. I like to watch. Now are you gonna put my dick in your mouth or what? I’m feeling lonesome."

It seems as good a way to shut him up as any. Sans takes Red in his mouth. He doesn't take him deep, just curls his tongue around Red and sucks a little, taking a moment to enjoy it. 

Red draws in a breath, his eyes avid and hot on Sans. Sans has definitely got his full attention. That rush of power he finds on his knees rolls over him, heady and nostalgic as taking a drag off a joint.

He used to be able to suck a guy off when he was exhausted, drunk, blackout depressed, or mostly focusing on his thesis, which is why doesn't particularly have to concentrate on this part. He can just let body memory take over, let his thoughts and check back in when Red is close. 

But he doesn't. He stays here, feeling every twitch of Red's cock on his tongue as he slowly bobs his head, watching Red's face. Watching Sans right back, Red huffs a laugh and reaches out with his free hand to snag a discarded jacket off the floor and shove it behind his head in lieu of a pillow. Then he makes himself comfortable.

Sans pulls off Red's dick for a moment to say, "You want some champagne and caviar while you're at it?"

"You got any?" Red asks, predictably unapologetic. "Don't mind me, honey. Just settling in to enjoy the Cadillac of blowjobs."

"I can't tell if you actually think that's flattery." Sans curls his fingers around Red's cock and strokes it a few times, base to tip, before bending to drag his tongue over the head. Red curses, and Sans licks the first smears of precome off his teeth. "And it's a Maserati, thanks."

"What's the fucking difference?" Red asks, most of his attention fixed on Sans's mouth.

Apparently car magazines didn't fall into the dump in Red's world. Just romance novels. Or maybe Red didn't let himself or Edge even entertain the idle fantasy of ever reaching the surface. It was never going to happen. Might as well wish to… well, cross over into a less murderous universe and literally fuck yourself. The prospect's just about as likely.

"You really want me to tell you right now?" Sans asks. He gives another long lick from his own loosely curled fingers to the tip of Red's dick to punctuate all the better things they could be doing. Red shudders. "Weird choice, but okay. First, the horsepower in a Maserati is--"

"Never mind, I don't wanna know," Red says.

"You sure?" Sans asks, sweet as pie. "You sounded real interested."

"I'm more interested in you sucking me off," Red says. 

"All right," Sans says, conceding with a speed that should probably make Red suspicious as hell, if Red wasn't so distracted by his dick. "Lemme know if you get bored and change your mind."

When Sans puts his mouth back on Red's cock, rubbing at the sensitive place just beneath the head as he slowly jerks off what isn't in his mouth, Red's gratified moan sounds anything but bored. Good. It'd be a shame if Sans wasted all of the dirty tricks in his playbook. Now he makes it a point to exploit them one by one as Red pours honeyed words of praise and profanity in his ears.

It doesn't take long. Sans knows Red’s body now. When he can feel Red start to tense, his breathing coming in ragged huffs, his cock twitching in Sans’s mouth, Sans waits until the last possible moment to pull away. He’s breathing as unsteadily as Red, the taste of him heavy on his tongue.

Red’s wrist jerks in his grip, less like he’s trying to get free than like he’s trying to wring an orgasm out of the pleasure as it recedes. Then, with a groan, he goes limp. Well, mostly limp. As Sans watches, a little precome wells out of the tip of Red’s still-hard dick and trickles onto Red’s pelvis. His mouth waters greedily.

“Oh, you fucker,” Red breathes. His grin blooms like a drop of blood in water. “So that’s how you wanna play it, huh?”

“Yep.” As another thick drop of fluid starts to form at the slit of Red’s cock, Sans can’t not lick it up. Red shivers beneath him, and Sans pauses to ask, “You good with that?”

“Yeah,” Red says, dragging the word out, savoring it. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

Sans’s soul clenches, sweet and painful. He swallows, stroking his thumb over the inside of Red’s wrist. “Should I ask for your safeword?”

“Aww,” Red says, grinning. “You worried?”

More like Sans has never done this before. Hard to experiment with edging when he was trying to get someone off as quickly and quietly as possible before they scarred some unsuspecting janitor or undergrad for life. He hadn’t really wanted to experiment with it, honestly. He liked to give people what they wanted and then move onto the next. It’s what he was good for.

Was. He’s not sure when that changed.

(Bullshit. He knows exactly when that changed.)

“You’re not the only one who cares about consent, asshole,” Sans says. “I know stop probably means stop, but I wanna be careful.”

_With you._ Sans bites his tongue before those last two words slip out.

“It’s quark,” Red says after a long moment.

“Like the cheese?” Sans asks.

Aggravated, Red says, “Look, I didn’t fucking know that until I got up here, all right? Why the hell humans would name a goddamn cheese after a theoretical particle is--”

Sans drags his tongue up the underside of Red’s cock. Amazingly, it’s enough to make Red lose his words. He groans instead, his fingers digging into the mattress as he pushes demandingly into Sans’s mouth. With the hand not occupied with Red’s wrist, Sans shoves Red’s spine flat to the bed and holds him there as he keeps going.

“Fuuuck yeah,” Red says hoarsely, relaxing in his grip. “Gonna suck me off, honey? Use that sweet mouth of yours until I’m begging?”

Sans figured it would be pretty obvious that yeah, he’s going to suck Red off, seeing as he’s in the process as they speak. Or at least he’s licking Red like he’s a bicicle melting on a summer day, greedily lapping up the taste of his precome. The licks are aimless, meant to wind Red up more than anything, and judging from the filthy and increasingly desperate noises Red makes, Sans is doing his job right.

Not that Red isn’t getting off on it plenty. Slowly, the rhythm of his breathing speeds up. His femurs begin to shake, his fingers twitching on the mattress. Sans thinks he can push him a little harder, but Red gasps out, “If you wanna keep playing, you gotta stop.”

Pressing a kiss to the head of Red’s dick, Sans backs off again. Despite the fact that he was the one to warn Sans, Red makes a wretched sound. Sans tells him, “Thanks, that was real helpful of you.”

Half-laughing, Red says, “Fuck you, asshole.”

“Nope. I’d rather do this for a while instead if it’s all the same to you.” Sans considers the way Red’s cock jerks and bobs against his pelvis. He lets go of Red’s spine to pet his iliac crest instead and feels Red yearn towards his idle touch. “Turns out your dick gets really wet when I don’t let you come.”

“Goddamn,” Red says fervently. “You don’t gotta touch me, just talk dirty to me.”

“It’s an idle observation, not dirty talk.”

“Oh, my mistake. I thought you were just telling me all about how wet my dick is for you.” Red lets out a shuddery breath. “Gonna lick it clean?”

Sans really wishes Red’s bullshit didn’t do it for him. This time it’s less the actual words than the sentiment behind them, the fact that Red genuinely doesn’t know what Sans is going to do to him or how long Sans will leave him hanging but he’s game.

“Seems a shame to let it go to waste,” Sans says.

So he doesn’t. He licks Red over and over, which only makes him wetter, and takes him in his mouth to suck him slow and teasing. The third time Sans pulls him back from the edge might be cruel. By the fifth time, it definitely is. Every time, Red warns him, even if his voice breaks and his eyes are squinched shut like he can’t believe he’s doing this to himself.

He doesn’t safeword.

The sixth time Sans pulls away, the telltale tension of Red’s femurs when he gets close has become outright trembling. Red sinks into the mattress with a ragged gasp, his head fallen back. His soul is so bright it’s almost hard to look at. He looks debauched, his bones slick with sweat, his cock wet from Sans’s mouth and so hard it’s twitching without a single touch. Even as he winds down, Red’s shaking a little.

Sans can’t even bullshit and say he’s not beautiful.

It’s like somebody handed Sans the double-edged blade of guilt and satisfaction. He’s not sure how to hold it without cutting himself. He rubs Red’s hipbone with his thumb, a touch that he means to be soothing but only drags another tight moan from Red.

“You okay?” Sans asks. “You wanna stop?”

Red laughs, a slightly wild noise. “No. I need...”

When Red trails off, Sans says more gently than he means to, “Whatever you want.”

Red cracks an eye open, and the look he gives Sans is reassuringly calculating even if his eyelight is completely blown. “C’n I touch you?”

Funny, Sans would’ve figured that Red would want Sans to touch _him_. He looks like he’s barely hanging on by his fingertips, and the thought of Red shifting focus to him sits uneasily in Sans’s non-existent gut.

Before he can try to finagle his way out of it, Red’s grin softens fractionally. Instead of trying to drag Sans down, Red rests a shaky hand on the back of Sans’s neck. “Easy. I ain’t asking you to stop. I just...”

Just needed a point of connection. Sans gets it. He nuzzles high on Red’s femur to feel him shudder. “You want more?”

“Yeah,” Red sighs. “Fuck me up.”

“Since you asked nicely,” Sans says, and takes Red in his mouth again. Then he takes him deeper, gripping Red’s hip for leverage as he pushes down. Ironically, Red is the one who chokes as he breeches Sans’s throat.

Grasping blindly at Sans’s shoulder, Red gasps, “Oh fuck, baby, that’s-- oh god, you’re so good.”

Sans hums, pleased, because it’s nice to have feedback. Red makes a tight, desperate noise. His grip on Sans’s shoulder moves to the nape of Sans’s neck, clinging like Sans is his lifeline, but he doesn’t try to force Sans to stay still. When Sans bobs his head, letting Red fuck his throat, Red just holds on for the ride.

Red’s cock is thick, making Sans’s throat burn and his eyes water. His head swims with the taste of Red, the sounds Red is making, the feel of him shaking apart. It crowds out everything else. Distantly, Sans is aware that he’s grinding against the mattress like a horny teenager, but the friction against his pubic symphysis doesn’t matter as much as this. Red has dragged him down into the sweat and heat with him, made his body throb with every moan and shudder. Sans has no distance any more.

It must only be minutes before Red says, the words clumsy and uneven, “‘M close.”

Sans squeezes his hip, a silent acknowledgement, and keeps going. No faster, no slower, just a steady rhythm for Red to fall apart on. Red’s given him enough. More than enough. Now all he wants is to feel Red come.

“Sweetheart,” Red says, voice catching on the word, and the desperation in it hits Sans in the soul and the pelvis at once, twin flares of heat. “Please don’t stop.”

Sans shudders hard, his hips hitching against the bed. He grabs Red’s hand where it’s gripping his spine and presses it in harder, willing Red to understand what he’s offering. Then he speeds up, pushing himself even as the tears in his eyes spill over and his head spins.

“Fuck,” Red says, almost a whimper. He pulls Sans against him, sliding into his throat, and Sans moans and swallows quick and frantic to feel Red jerk. Red thrusts into him; it’s uncontrolled and ruthless as the way Sans is rutting against the mattress, the two of them fucking each other up. Red cries out, the noise ratcheting up like the rattle of his bones as he spills down Sans’s throat.

Sans drinks him down. Ignoring the insistent throb between his legs, he eases Red through his orgasm (it seems to stretch out long, wracking him) until Red makes a vaguely plaintive noise and twitches away. Even then, Red never releases his grip, like he thinks Sans is going somewhere.

When Sans pulls back, Red is still trembling. If anything, it’s gotten stronger. He has an arm slung over his eyes, hiding his expression, but he looks vulnerable in a way that makes Sans’s abused throat feel tighter. Red didn’t safeword, but Sans pushed him too hard, he should’ve stopped at four, he _knew_ Red is a self-destructive bastard who wouldn’t call it even if he should, Sans fucked up--

Goddamn it, no. He can have his stupid guilty meltdown later. For now...

“You all right?” Sans rasps. Stupid question. He amends it to, “What do you need me to do? You want me to call Edge?”

Red’s mouth twitches. He undrapes the arm across his face and pats the mattress beside him. Sans goes, curling up at Red’s side, and Red immediately snuggles up against him. Sans feels a stab of protectiveness he isn’t sure what to do with, because fuck knows Red doesn’t need his help, so Sans just holds him, careful not to put too much pressure on his bruised shoulders.

“‘S just endorphins,” Red mumbles against his throat. “You shook like this after I tentacle fucked you, ‘member?”

Vividly. That whole episode is burned into Sans’s mind. Not even just the (scorching hot) sex but the part where Red was there for him afterwards, petting and praising him. Sans puts a steadying hand on the back of Red’s neck, feeling the collar resonate. It’s almost not cripplingly awkward when he says, “Thanks. For letting me do that. It was nice.”

Red snorts. “Nice?”

Sans pats the back of his head. “You were so good for me, etcetera.” When Red snickers shakily, Sans settles into stroking from the middle of his spine to just above the sacrum. Red melts into the touch, nuzzling up under Sans’s chin in a way that Sans might call adorable if Red wasn’t about as cute as a tank of piranhas with fins made of switchblades. Sans says, “I didn’t mean to push you so hard.”

“I liked it,” Red says, the edge of a purr in his voice. “If you think the boss hasn’t pushed me harder--”

“That’s different.”

“Oh, is it?” When Sans doesn’t say anything, Red hums like it was an answer. “I would’ve stopped you if I wanted to. Don’t get your panties in a knot. How’s your throat?”

“Fine. Feels like some dude fucked it.”

“Sounds like it, too.” Red’s clever hands begin to wander south. His mouth moves against Sans’s throat. “I got kinda rough with you.”

It’s not quite a question, just Red leaving space for Sans to object to the rough handling. Sans says mildly, “I would’ve stopped you if I wanted to.”

Red huffs a laugh. “Guess so.”

When his hand starts to slip between Sans’s waistband, Sans catches his wrist. He can still feel the tremble in Red’s bones, and that plus the little intrigued sound Red makes are a dangerous combination of things Sans shouldn’t want.

“You don’t have to,” Sans says.

“I know,” Red agrees. His voice is as intimate and dangerous as a knife to the throat. “I want to.”

“I have a juicebox,” Sans says, but his grip on Red’s wrist is already weakening. Red breaks it, his hand sliding so easily down the front of Sans’s shorts. Helplessly, Sans continues, “You could take a nap or something. We could watch--”

Red takes his pubic symphysis between forefinger and thumb, and Sans damn near bites his tongue in his attempt to muffle a whine. Chuckling because he’s an asshole, Red rubs slow, taunting circles like he’s stroking a clit.

“You gonna form something for me?” Red asks.

Fuck knows Sans’s magic is trying. He can feel it surging, trying to form before he forces it to stay diffuse. He doesn’t have a _preference_, goddamn it. It’s a coincidence that his body usually just happens to form a cunt when he’s this riled up. He’s fallen into a habit, that’s all. Gotten lazy. Variety is the spice of life, etc.

“It’s fine like this,” Sans says.

“Mm-hmm,” Red says, dangerously noncommittal. 

Then he takes his hand out of Sans’s pants, leaving him throbbing. Before Sans can point out the egregious mixed messages he’s getting, Red rearranges himself so that they’re face to face and kisses him slow and filthy as he divests Sans of his shorts. Sans exhales the breath he was taking to complain and kisses him back. Making out is fine by him. A++ distraction.

As Red lays claim to his mouth like he didn’t already thoroughly fuck it, his thigh slips between Sans’s to press against his pelvis. Sans grunts, his hips involuntarily hitching, and Red grabs one of Sans’s iliac crests like a handlebar to urge him to repeat the motion in catch Sans didn’t catch his drift.

“Fuck,” Sans mutters, his face burning. "You're making me do all the work lately."

"Thought you liked having the steering wheel," Red says. "Besides, after you pushed me _so_ damn hard, I'm just too wrung out to do a thing."

"Asshole," Sans says without heat. For the principle of the thing, he should probably balk, but honestly, fuck principles. He grinds against Red’s femur. The bone is mostly sleek and warm and easy, but a few of Red’s scars rasp against his pubic symphysis in a way that’s just shy of too intense. He could let his magic form to buffer it. He doesn’t.

While he rubs off on Red, halting and uncertain at first and then faster, seeking friction, Red murmurs with rough satisfaction in his voice, “Goddamn, that’s hot.”

Since Red’s too busy talking shit to kiss him properly, Sans pushes his face into the curve of Red’s throat. Red’s grip settles on the back of his neck, steering him towards sharp, scarred clavicle. Heat rolls through Sans, inevitable as the tide. He tastes Red’s collarbone, tracing the scars with his tongue, not using teeth.

“You wanna mark me up?” Red asks, a growl so deep Sans can feel it in his ribcage. 

Yes, but it’d be crazy to admit it. But then this whole goddamn thing has been crazy back to front, control slipping through his fingers every moment he spends with these assholes. Red must feel Sans hesitate, even the rhythm of his hips faltering; he pets Sans’s spine with his fingertips, unexpectedly gentle. 

“You can if you want. You don’t even gotta ask for it this time,” Red says. He nudges Sans’s ilium with his free hand, coaxing him to move, and Sans does. “Call it a freebie.”

Yeah, right. Red might be willing to give it to him without strings attached, but Sans has it on bitter experience that he ends up paying more for things that are supposed to be free.

He should ask what this means to Red, if it means anything at all. He should ask himself what this will change. What he does is carefully close his teeth around Red's clavicle. The sound Red makes is too satisfying to want to take it back.

“Yeah,” Red murmurs, leaning his head back to expose his throat. He presses his thigh a little harder against Sans's pelvis, giving him more pressure. “C'mon. I want you to.”

Hard to argue with that. Sans gives up on trying to keep his magic unformed and focuses instead on the intent not to harm. Then, experimentally, he bites.

Red's HP stays steady as a rock but Red groans, a rough sound that slips between Sans's ribs and finds his aching soul. It lights a fuse, counting down to the moment that the vicarious high of Red's pleasure and the friction against his bare pelvis drag Sans over the edge. After edging Red for what must've been at least an hour, it's not a very long fuse. 

Sans bites again, still tentative but a little harder, and Red murmurs his satisfaction like the filthiest of praise. His approval curls warm fingers around Sans's soul. When Sans grits out a noise, the pleasure drawing tight, Red says, "You c'n do it harder."

Sans kind of loses his goddamn mind. When he bites down the third time, it's not hesitant at all. Red shudders, his moan throaty and satisfied, and that's it. Sans bucks against Red's thigh and comes hard.

"That's right," Red croons, holding him tight as he shudders and gasps. "That’s what I wanted. Gonna show my shiny new bruise off to the boss when he gets home. He’ll love it."

"_Fuck_," Sans pants, completely appalled by the way Red casually tosses things out of the dark corners of his mental oubliettes.

Red hums as if agreeing that yep, fuck is certainly the word. He doesn't seem troubled by the implications of what just happened. Maybe because Sans let Red mark him first. Maybe because Sans gave him a burger and now they're practically going steady as far as Red's culture is concerned.

Speaking of things that get shoved in the oubliette...

Sans buries his face in Red's throat. The scent of him, leather collar and sex sweat and the ghost of Edge's soap, is comforting. Wrapping up the afternoon by curling up with Red on the couch under a blanket sounds like a great idea. He's drained, the ache is his soul is a little duller, and he's thoroughly satisfied. And there's no wetness between his thighs, which says he kept his magic from forming after all. It's a banner day all around.

Idly petting Sans’s spine, Red asks, “So how’s that LV treating you, dollface?”

Sans’s head jerks up so fast he nearly concusses them both. Red grins at him, his eyes half-lidded and knowing. Sans sighs. “How’d you know that I figured it out?”

“You’re not as opaque as you think you are. Not to me, anyway.”

Sans snorts. “I think you got the better end of this judge deal because I usually don’t know what the fuck you’re thinking.”

“Like hell. You know. Quit telling yourself you’re wrong about three-quarters of what you see and just trust the simple answer.” Red yawns. “All that schooling and you don’t know Occam’s Razor.”

“How about you spare me the cutting riparte and tell me if I’m gonna flip my shit?” Sans says.

“Do you feel like you’re gonna flip your shit?” Red asks, thoroughly unconcerned by the prospect of Sans losing his mind.

“How the fuck would I know? I’ve never done it before.”

Red takes Sans by the chin; his hand is steady now. He angles Sans’s face towards the lazy afternoon light coming in through the crooked blinds, searching his eyes like a jeweler looking for fracture points before giving his verdict. “Think you got it out of your system. Besides, I didn’t get like this until I hit LV 5. You might have a few days here and there where you wanna hole up and tell people to leave you the fuck alone, but you should be able to keep it together. Fuck knows you’re stubborn enough.”

“Okay,” Sans says. It’s a reasonable answer. He tells himself it’s enough.

Maybe Red can tell that there’s still restless _what ifs_ spinning in Sans’s mind like the worst roulette wheel because he asks, “Not comforting enough for you? Fine. Me and the boss’ll be there. I’ll keep an eye out. If it looks like you’re tweaking out, I’ll handle it. I’m not gonna let you hurt anybody.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sans says, tugging out of Red’s grip even as the last lingering tension in his spine relaxes. If Red’s there as a safety net made of homicide, he can believe that it’s okay.

“We got you,” Red says, watching him.

There are depths beneath those words that Sans is afraid to look into. His throat feels tight and achy. He's gonna blame it on Red's dick. He says too quietly, "Yeah, I know."

Red’s grin ticks up at one corner. Then he lounges back like he’s in some fancy old-fashioned nude painting and touches the bruise on his collarbone. The mark is blotchy and light, like it'll be gone in hours, but Red shows it off like a prize necklace. “So how’s it look?”

The easy joke rests on Sans's tongue: _looks like one of the dog's rawhides._ But looking at his mark on Red, the openness with which he's offering his body, there’s nothing Sans can say but, “Pretty.”

For a vulnerable moment, Red just stares at him, shoved off his smug pedestal by a simple compliment. Then, with a crooked grin, he says, “Narcissist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: reference to Red's issues with being touched gently; reference to Sans having sex under the influence back in college as well as his current and past unhealthy ideas about sex in general; discussion of Sans's minor LV flareup and that Red will step in to stop him from hurting anybody if necessary.
> 
> For the record, I freaking love romance novels and Red is full of shit as always.


	3. (bonus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi, mark.

Edge gets home relatively early to find Red in the shower and Sans gone. There’s takeout on the kitchen counter from one of the few restaurants Edge can tolerate. Either Red's in an exceedingly good humor or he murdered someone and is trying to temper Edge’s reaction. In lieu of dust or a corpse on the living room floor, Edge is going to eat his fucking sushi and do paperwork until Red decides to stop abusing the water heater.

In the meantime, Doomfanger makes himself at home on Edge’s lap and proceeds to beg shamelessly. Edge knows he shouldn’t reward that kind of behavior, but after leaving Doomfanger for almost nine months, willingly or not, a few tidbits of tuna is the least Edge can do.

The bathroom door opens. Red strolls out on a cloud of steam, looking quite pleased with himself. Without any sort of greeting, he picks Doomfanger up, deposits him on the floor, and takes his place on Edge’s lap. Doomfanger gives a warning growl, his ears flipped back.

"Yeah, that's right. I'm bigger and I got opposable thumbs," Red tells the glaring cat. "Sucks to be you."

Doomfanger flicks an ear, then disdainfully turns away and begins cleaning himself to remove the sting of this indignity.

"Well done. You've interrupted my work and bullied a cat," Edge says. There's no bite behind the words. He's enjoying the warm, welcome weight of Red on his lap too much to complain, and the tilt of Red's grin says that he's in a good mood. "What do you want?"

In answer, Red hooks two fingers in the neck of his t-shirt and pulls it aside to bare his left clavicle and the fresh bruise there. The mark. _Sans's_ mark.

Edge draws in a breath. With gentle fingers, he touches the bruise. It's pale, already fading as Red heals. It gives Edge an unexpected pang of nostalgia, remembering the first hesitant marks he made when he was unsure of what Red could take.

"You like it?" Red asks. No doubt he can read the answer on Edge's face, but he’s never been able to resist throwing gasoline on every fire he comes across.

Instead of answering aloud, Edge bends his head to Red's collarbone and tastes the bruise. Red exhales shakily, holding onto the back of Edge's neck as Edge explores the mark with his tongue. He fancies that he can feel Sans on it, an echo of intent like the collars, even if living bone doesn't hold magic for that long. An indirect kiss shared through Red's very willing body.

"Gonna take that as a yes," Red says. His fingertips find and stroke the sensitive scar that does not bisect Edge’s cervical spine. "Are you two lovebirds just gonna keep on passing notes to each other on my bones? ‘Cause I’m good with that."

The mockery is gentle by Red's standards; he almost doesn't spit the word _love_ like it tastes foul. Edge hides his smile against Red's ribs and says, "An excellent idea.”

It’s tempting to bite the mark that Sans left behind so that the bruise lasts longer, but it would be too easily misinterpreted as a possessive rebuke rather than artistic collaboration. Instead Edge checks the seat beside them for cats, finds it empty, and lays Red down on the couch. That done, Edge rucks Red’s shirt up and bends to lay another mark somewhere lower. His spine, perhaps, or his iliac crest. Although the inside of his femur has its merits--

A sudden weight lands on Edge’s back. He tenses, instinctively flattening himself over Red to protect him. His HP can easily take a hit; Red’s can’t. Instead of an attack, he feels claws digging into his back for balance. The stray cat chirps, the sound that means she’s feeling playful and would like to join whatever this exciting new game is.

“Maybe we should name her Cockblock,” Red muses.

Edge rests his brow against Red’s sternum, trying not to laugh. The jostling would only make her dig her claws in again. “Hilarious. Now move her.”

“What, you’re not into a little exhibitionism?”

“I already plan to have _you_ clawing my back, brother. You don’t need competition.”

Red snorts. “Aside from Sansy when he gets riled.”

“Well,” Edge says, caught off guard by that mental image. It seemed daring to kiss the back of Sans’s hand; the thought of Sans beneath him, fingers digging into Edge’s shoulders as Edge fucks him, is almost too much to let himself consider. He will be patient, goddamn it. Still, he admits, “Perhaps.”

“C’mere, furball,” Red tells the stray, and a moment later her slight weight lifted off Edge’s back. She protests with surprising volume for her size. It takes Red another few seconds to coax Edge’s shirt out of her claws. Then he sets her on the floor. She immediately launches herself back onto Edge. With a disgruntled noise, Red repeats the process a little more firmly, still being noticeably careful not to hurt her, and adds, “Don’t say I never gave you nothing.”

Edge stares at the stray, who is chewing contentedly, and then at his brother. “Are you keeping cat treats in your fucking inventory?”

“Hell no,” Red says, unflinchingly lying straight to Edge’s face. “Now get off me before she eats them.”

“Leave some for Fang,” Edge says. “If you’re going to spoil my cats, the least you can do is not play favorites.”

“Oh, for fuck’s--” Red tosses a handful of what are most definitely cat treats towards Doomfanger, who perks up at the unexpected bounty. “Happy now, asshole? Are we gonna bang it out or d’you wanna bitch some more?”

In answer, Edge scoops his brother up off the couch, slings him over his shoulder and heads for the bedroom. Red knees him in the ribs for his trouble, although it seems rather half-hearted. Once the bedroom door is safely closed, Edge drops Red onto the bed unceremoniously enough that he bounces a little as the springs complain loudly about this abuse.

“Yes,” Edge says calmly, already undoing his belt. “We’re going to bang it out, as you so elegantly put it.”

“All right.” Watching him, Red fingers the mark on his collarbone, a silent reminder that he won’t be satisfied unless Edge gives him at least one more to complete the set. “Guess I won’t bite your dick off, then.” 

“That’s quite an empty threat, brother.” It’s difficult to gracefully shed tight pants, but Edge does his best. Red hungrily stares at his bare bones with gratifying appreciation, his grin getting sharper as Edge climbs on the bed and kneels over his face. Allowing his magic to form, Edge says, “Still, perhaps I shouldn’t tempt you.”

Red laughs, low and filthy, his breath a warm tease against Edge’s cunt. “Bullshit. You always tempt me, boss.”

It sidles dangerously close to sincerity. Edge stares down at him for a moment, frozen; his soul feels tight in a way that’s both painful and sweet. Red stares back, daring Edge to say a word, ready to flinch away from any vulnerability. Before Red has a chance to take it back, Edge gives him something better to do with his mouth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Well Then](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22369870) by [xXAnaloceitXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXAnaloceitXx/pseuds/xXAnaloceitXx)


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